Would you fry the eggs?
Would you kiss me soft,
and hard when required?
Would you feed me books,
would you allow me
stupidity, verbally,
… let’s call it daftness,
so I can learn?
Would you pull a blanket
over my shoulders as
I sleep?
Would you make my
favourite dinner when
I am sad, when I am happy,
when I am grateful, when
I am needful?
Would you leave me
be to watch old movies,
The Wizard of Oz
and contemporary
remakes,
would you let me talk?
Would you let me keep
my socks on?
No? Would you promise
to keep me warm?
Would you be the man?
The protector? For I am
tired of that role,
Would you let me be the
lady, meek and mild,
soft and gentle,
Would you let me be
the nurturer?
Would you stand at
my side when I am
the lion, fierce and
protective, would you
stay at my side
proudly then?
Would you let me
love you?
In all my abandoned
states of intensity,
passion and raw
quirkiness…
Would you let me love you?

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Horizons calling…

And all of my
yesterday’s made
my today,
horizon smeared
in the devils mist,
and still the sun
burns through
and verge edges
are promised,
and falling
is a must
I’m sure now
Oblivion can’t
be that deep
and rocks are
never as sharp
as we expect
and beyond that
veil, I can
finally derobe
this battered
armour
and let the sun
warm my skin…

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via wordpress library

Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
write the
God damn poem,
it isn’t
rocket science.

Karen Hayward ©2019

It’s not rocket science sweety

Dear one I have no business talking too…

It’s not rocket science my sweet…

They decieve us…not man, although they too lie,
I’m talking about books, poems, stories
Love, does not shackle us to endless grey skies,
or cage us behind thick heavy trees.
Love is boundless, without an origin
and missing the tethered rip of an end
alone, is not a facet love will bring
and if it does, my sweet, he is no friend.
Alas, you are caught in despairs whirlwind,
tangled between pain and belief, entrapped
in a splintered labrynth with false King.
Awake now, your golden light has been sapped.
Wait no longer, gather strength and esteem
this is not love, just an endless bad dream.

Karen Hayward 2019

Image via Google search

Media, pedia….


We don’t look like that, do we?
All tanned and toned and
perfectly honed, with matching
knickies, bra and socks…
No not socks, panty hose
swaying frocks, and perfect
thick, fine, curly, straight
long short, natural, dyed locks
And breath.
We don’t look like that. Do we?
Not naturally, surely.
Hell I’m all pale skin
curves not thin
odd socks, hipster pants
and runaway hair, tamed
and flamed, a wild mane.
I suppose I could change.
Paint away my creases
Click away my knobbly knees
Re-root my slither of silver strands
Start wearing, pink, frilly pants
matching lace bras and sheer tights,
nylons, pantyhose…I’d fill them with holes!
We don’t look like that,
really, do we?
Do we? Tell me, do we?
I suppose I could use
lotions and potions
rewind the motions.
such an odd notion.
To be something we are not,
or perhaps we are
perhaps I am wrong
I should adorn a thong
be smooth to the touch
hide away my blemishes
I should embrace the fuss…

…doesn’t really matter
what I think, we grade beauty on
personal perception,
do they think this is real? Banished blemishes,
smoothed out creases,
erased slithers of silver…

..men are daft,
surely, yes.
Do they really care?
Or are they
too busy
toning up
picking vests,
Oiling up
perfect six packs
combing through
Mc dreamy hair
trying also,
to be magazine
best.

Am I wrong?
Should I care?

Karen Hayward © 2018

In the link is 18 images of one woman, photoshopped differently according to culture…

It’s so easy to get caught up thinking women (and men also) look like the images in magazines, or that we should attain to look like them.

Media makes us ashamed of age, growing older, silver/grey hair, stretch marks, extra weight or untoned muscles, that we forget the simplicity of imagery….they’re just meant to look pretty.

Women (and men) do not look like this…but do we know this? Do they know this? Isn’t that where the insecurity lays?

Wishing upon planes thinking they are stars…

From this angle, she see’s the universe,
the infinite promise of light in dark
and ponders if believing is perverse
Like the damned wishing on eternal stars.
likely soon he’ll skin the flesh from her soul
bleed her dry till she’s tender on the tongue
shelling the carcass upon an old knoll
ripping at rotten scars where life had stung.
And she’ll tumble, doe legged into headlights
the scattered remnants of one’s own soldier
fettered to the darkest skies of twilight
falling nude at the hands of her poacher
Perhaps we pander to the passing planes
Thinking them stars, just spectators of shame.

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest
#sonnet

Sharp edge of poverty

We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty
rebel with a cause of our own
repelling authority, society, reality
followed a path of wildness sown.
They said, we had perfect hips
Was good for nothing but having kids
One dad, two, three, maybe four
Poverty cycle, repeating the poor.
We succeeded at failing, came top of our class,
Sipped on cider from our childhood flasks.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt.
Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care,
No one even noticed when we stopped going there.
We wore indifference across our lips
prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick.
And when time suddenly came, exams taken,
Sixteen went past, future forsaken
Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing,
New life created in a career of caring.
Some of us paused in a psychedelic dream
Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.

Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break,
So I picked up the books and read by the lake.
They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all,
I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall.
I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view,
A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue.
They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more”
And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure…
But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy,
Whispered through days kept my dreams coy.
I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes,
No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.

There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see,
An etched line for the men, a reality,
not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence,
No, its a line that demands female defiance…

But poverty has no glass, just hips
and glossy red lips,
No succeeding, just expectations of failing,
You either fail at school and fight for a life,
Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife.
My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty,
Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality,
They set a standard, the poor girls target,
dreams are only for the rich they say
use the gifts God gave you that day…

They said I was good for nothing
all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…

My Dad said, girl, do you see that star?
No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far…
He said, keep walking till you have that in sight,
That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found via wordpress library